


in the fever of a world in flame

by pyladic



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Incest, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 13:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16430381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyladic/pseuds/pyladic
Summary: Helene and Dolokhov, arm in arm.





	in the fever of a world in flame

Light glittered in the ballroom of the Kuragin estate, cast by the chandelier, which sparkled and refracted off the jewels of the ladies as they swirled in the figures of the pavane. Glasses clinked against each other, and the cream of Moscow society gossiped and flirted in a low hum.

Helene accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter and took a sip, the sweetness and dryness of it tingling in the back of her throat. She watched across the room, eyes fixed on her brother, glittering white and smiling his most charming smile. He bowed and offered his hand to Countess Rostova, who flushed bright red and accepted it, allowing herself to be pulled into the dance as the music shifted to something else. A waltz, she thought. That suited Anatole just fine. Sensual, romantic, and just inside the bounds of modesty.

Dolokhov cleared his throat next to her, and she had to stop herself from jumping. Damn the man. When would he learn to make a little noise, give her some warning as he approached? His amusement was palpable as he took the champagne flute from her and sipped at it.

"You're a bastard," she said dryly, fiddling with the strands of pearls hanging around her neck.

"Oh, I know." Dolokhov let out a sigh as he finished the glass and handed it off to the next waiter that passed. There was something oddly comforting about his refusal to pretend to be anything other than what he was. In a city of liars and gossips, having one person she could count on to be rude and borderline unpleasant and wicked was invaluable. What would she do without Dolokhov, her sometimes lover, constant confidant?

He followed her gaze across the ballroom to Anatole and Countess Rostova. He didn't quite roll his eyes at Anatole lingering far too long over Countess Rostova's hand after kissing it, but it was a near thing. There was something in his expression - frustration? affection? With him, the two often went hand in hand - that she couldn't quite read.

"He's going to ruin us all," she finally said, for lack of anything better. Dolokhov let out a breath and folded his hands behind his back. It wasn't disagreement.

Anatole had the little countess caught in his arms, his touch too much, too brazen. Even across the room, Helene could see the whites of her eyes, and wasn't sure if she was terrified or enthralled. She had the look of a hunted animal, for all that she was a pretty young thing draped in white. Anatole would have his fun, and then the poor girl would be left without reputation or prospects. What a shame. What a waste. 

"He wants an elopement, you know." Dolokhov's voice was casual, though there was a tension in his stance that couldn't be put down to simple discomfort in public.

Helene bit the inside of her cheek. Of course he wanted an elopement, stupid boy. And of course he'd tell Dolokhov before her. There were times she hated them both. Christ.

"I wish you'd just fuck him and get it over with." Helene kept her tone conversational. They could have been talking about the weather, for all any ignorant passerby could have told.

Dolokhov's shoulders stiffened, but his voice was easy. "Why, is he a good lay?"

And it's a cruel jest, but not one she doesn't deserve. They've always known how to tear each other apart, the two of them. She waited another moment before replying, long enough to make him squirm a little. 

"An elopement is not going to be possible." They both knew perfectly well why. Anatole, married at twenty to some Polish girl he hadn't been able to keep from taking to bed, was not going to be able to marry a respectable Russian girl with prospects. Theoretically, he knew that too. In practice, probably not. 

"I did tell him that." Dolokhov's expression tightened as he watched them, still dancing, pressed closer than anybody had a right to be. 

Of course he did. If anyone was going to look after Anatole's reputation, stupid and flighty as he was, it was going to be the two of them. Helene sighed. "And what did he say, pray? Thank you for your good advice?"

Dolokhov let out a breath, and a muscle in his jaw jumped. In anyone else, it might have been a laugh. "You know what he's like. He'll see it done one way or another, and damn the consequences. He'll end up in prison, stupid boy, or worse."

For a brief moment, Helene imagined her brother languishing in a prison cell, dank and dirty, with barely enough room to pace in. She pictured him charming the guards into getting him a nicer cell, books to read, that ridiculous pomade he used for his hair. He did have a way of always landing on his feet.

But this time, he might not. Marya Dmitrievna wouldn't just let her favorite goddaughter run off without so much as a word, and she had a feeling Andrey Bolkonsky might have a thing or two to say about the matter as well. If it came down to a duel, Anatole wouldn't even make it to the dueling grounds. Dolokhov would stop him or die trying, and in a fight between him and Bolkonsky it was nearly even odds. Pierre might very well strangle her brother on the spot. He did have something of a soft spot for the Rostova girl, it would take a fool not to see it, and Helene was no man's fool.

"What are you thinking of?" Dolokhov's unimpressed voice cut off the train of her thought.

Her lips quirked upwards. "'O God, I have an ill divining soul,'" she said, her voice as dry as bone.

"Shakespeare?" His shoulders relaxed a little. "Elena Vasilievna. I didn't know you were such a poet."

Without them, her brother would flounder and fail. With their help, he still might. It was a losing game they were playing, and the stakes were higher than they'd ever been. But if there was a chance, even a small one, that things could turn out, she would have to take it.

"There's plenty of things you don't know about me, Fyodor Ivanovich." Helene leaned against his shoulder, just barely, and watched as her brother followed the pretty little countess out of the room, up the stairs, and out of sight.

**Author's Note:**

> a scene study I wrote as a gift for Jalisa, cross posting here for kicks!


End file.
